Penance
by Xazz
Summary: This was one nightmare he won't be waking up from. -oneshot-


The original prompt for this story was simply for Desmond to _somehow_ lose his ringfinger. OP didn't care how; it just had to go.

So I took it and Desmond's sanity too. I really REALLY like writing Desmond

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Nightmares were not odd for Desmond. He had them almost every night and they often left him more exhausted then when he finally fell asleep the night before. They always involved running across rooftops and would end sometime just before he face planted the ground. Sometimes he was in Florence, or Acre, or Rome once he was in London and another time he was in the ancient city of Troy. Not all the nightmares were like this though. Some involved him getting stabbed. Or he held the Apple in his hand and couldn't look away and he knew that he was not in control again. Once he dreamed he was drowning, his white robes flailing around him and water rushing down his throat when he tried to breath. And always,_ always,_ he would wake up just before death, gasping, sweating and staring around him like he wasn't meant to wake up wherever he had. Then he'd stay awake and stare at the ceiling, sleep a fleeting dream that didn't want to be caught behind his eyelids.

But this was not a dream, it was a nightmare. He didn't know how long he'd been asleep but he couldn't wake up. Usually when he realized he was dreaming the nightmare went away and he was allowed one of those rare nice dreams. This was not one of those times. Scenes flashed behind his eyelids, deserts and cities and jungles and plains and oceans and forests, all tangled together without reason or rhyme. Desmond wanted to grab the mess and twist the gnarls out and make them smooth, but the visions were fleeting and he couldn't grab hold of them no matter how hard he tried or struggled.

Suddenly there was light in the darkness and Desmond could feel his body heaving beneath him, breath breaking sharply against his lungs like he'd never breathed in his life. The brightness faded and could see where he was, but where he was was foreign and strange, the padded red chair the only thing he recognized. Moving his right hand he found it bound tightly in a leather strap to the armrest, as was his left arm and his legs. His brain couldn't move fast enough to process what was going on and it was moving so quickly he couldn't focus.

Where was he? Where was the Apple? What about Shaun and Rebecca? What was he doing here? Why was he strapped into Baby like someone in an insanity ward? More questions ricochet off the inside of his skull before they hit a brick wall.

Was Lucy alive?

He strained against the bindings, but they were firm. But he quickly realized they were not as tight has he'd first thought and squirmed his left wrist back and forth. The leather was new and stretched as he forced his wrist into it. He could almost fit his wrist through it when his hidden blade suddenly snapped up into the ready position. To late as Desmond yanked his wrist once more and it slid free, leaving his fingers to be crammed through the narrow outlet of.

The smell of blood washed over Desmond and after a few seconds to realize what had really just happened he screamed. Next to him a machine started to squeal as an alarm went off.

Several things happened at once as Desmond re-sheathed his blade and ripped away at the other strap on his right arm. One was the door opened and three people rushed in, two familiar, one was not and Desmond felt his blood go cold. The other was that upon seeing that Desmond seemed to be awake they started to speak, it quickly turned to yelling when they saw the blood stained across his white sweat shirt. There was chaos and someone called for a doctor, racing from the room in haste, practically falling over their own feet and the wailing alarm noise was finally shut off.

"Desmond," a voice cuts through the noise. "You idiot what did you do!" he looked up into Shaun's glaring, accusing eyes.

"_Vaffanculo vio zenzero prima che vi uccida!_" Desmond doesn't know what he's saying, not really, it's a reflex and it's only once the words are out of his mouth does he realize he isn't speaking English.

"What did he say?" someone, the person he doesn't know, is grabbing his left hand.

"Something I'd care not to repeat," Shaun growls, Desmond growls back and shoves the strange man. "What on earth did you do Desmond?" Shaun is now grabbing his left hand and he can't understand why they're freaking out so damn much about it.

That's when he finally stops trying to yank away from them and looked at the hand Shaun is holding. There's blood, a lot of blood and it's just pouring down his hand and won't stop. His eyes zero in on where he's been hurt but his brain accept it, it doesn't even try to deny it and what he sees. That his left ring finger is gone and he knows if he unsheathes his hidden blade there will be blood on its normally clean surface. He just blinks at it and finally the pain he felt earlier sinks into his bones, his skin and muscles.

More people enter the white room, it's Rebecca and someone else, they carry a first aid kit and in seconds are shoving Shaun out of the way and pressing gauze against the freshly cut stump. Desmond just watches them, silent and feels like he's floating above his body.

"Where's the rest of his finger?" the person treating his wound demands. The other stranger appears, he's holding the severed appendage between his thumb and index finger. "It'll be all right Desmond, we can reattach it."

"Shaun," Desmond looks away from the chaos around his hand. The red head looks at him, arms folded across his chest, Rebecca is next to him looking the poster child for worry. "What happened to Lucy?" he asked and feels his voice crack, he knows it's terrible when they both stiffen and look at each other.

"She didn't make it," Shaun says. He speaks calmly and Desmond wants to punch him. How can he be so calm! Desmond stares at him and realizes he's calm too. Unnaturally so though and it isn't until black spots dance in front of him that he realizes he's holding his breath. He breaths in a ragged gasp.

He finally looks away from the two. The woman, yes woman, with the first aid kit is going on about needing a surgeon. "I don't want you to put it back on," Desmond said. The two strangers look at him.

"It really isn't that bad Desmond."

"Leave it," he uses his right hand to snatch the finger from the strange man and hurls it across the room. As he does so he yanks away from the woman holding his injured, gauze wrapped hand against his chest.

"Desmond let us help you-"

"! لا يمكنك مساعدة أي شخص !تراجع" He screamed at them barely able to understand what he's saying. He doesn't want them, he doesn't want any of this. For a fleeting moment he wishes he'd never left the Farm, it wasn't worth this, nothing is worth this!

His feet find the ground, it buckles and rolls under him before finally is still. Hands are reaching for him but he shoves them away and forces his feet into action. He can't just _sit here_, he can't just be _useless_. He only makes it out the hall a few feet before his shoulder finds the wall and he sags against it and it takes him several seconds to realize the reason he can't see is because he's crying and nothing he does can make him stop.

This is a nightmare. A total nightmare and Desmond can't wake up. He's waiting for the jump off a building, or a stab through the chest, that will never come and he'd rather be in the nightmare then this. _Anything_ is preferable over this.

He killed her. Just like he let Kadar die and let Malik lose his arm, or how he watched Cristina die in his arms. Only this blood was truly on his hands and it would never go away. He sobbed into his knees, frame shaking from the force of them and despite the voices around him he can't hear them. They sound worried and anxious, they try and coax him to move but he can't all he can think of is how he let everything that was important to him had been taken from him and now there was nothing.

The stump hurts and he could feel his pulse through it, a slow rhythmic pain that shots up to the back of his skull. Every time he looks at it he knows he'll think of nothing but how he'd let everyone down, how he'd failed to keep even _one_ person from death. The ache and the reminder would be his penance for everything he'd failed in.

This was one nightmare he won't be waking up from.

-fin-

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_Vaffanculo vio zenzero prima che vi uccida_= fuck off you ginger before I kill you  
لا يمكنك مساعدة أي شخص !تراجع= fuck off! You can't help anyone!


End file.
